A Brief History of Time
by Mockingtale
Summary: "I hope you find the sea." A love story doomed from the start. Inspired by Bloodborne. Written for H.


_For H. I hope you're happy. And thank you, for being my friend._

* * *

 _You get what everybody gets._

 _A lifetime._

 _\- Death of the Endless, Neil Gaiman_

* * *

 **Prologue, Part I**

 ** _Hymns_**

 _「_ _who am i to judge?_ ** _」_**

As the revolver glinted coldly under the dim light, it was on purpose that the tall man twisted his wrist and pushed— barrel first, the gun past his lips and down his throat.

The room was wide, bare and empty with splintered gray wood for the flooring and canvases fluttering about the boarded windows like captured ghosts. Slivers of light slipped between the cracks like jagged lightening, and it was underneath their gentle lance that the tall man thumbed down the hammer—

—and the cylinders whirled.

He settled his index on the trigger. The man connected eyes with the stranger in front of him and—

Pressed.

There was a sound as the hammer hit at dead air. An empty cylinder.

The tall man grinned around the silvered metal and removed the revolver slowly. His eyes were amber, but they spoke of a rising manic excitement. A strand of saliva pulled taut between the wet nozzle and his lips and he pushed a teasing tongue to lick at its side, before sending it skittering across the table.

The cylindrical metal looked cold under the dark light; looked wet. The stranger's eyes were shaded by his cap, and his large coat nearly dwarfed his form. He moved with sinuous ease as his gloved hand darted out to the revolver, and he too—

—placed it within the maw of his mouth.

The tall man smirked, his amber eyes watchful with a crafty light. He leaned against his chair. It creaked. In his mouth, the stranger pulled the trigger—

The spring ejected. Empty.

Unharmed, the stranger dropped the gun onto the table.

He flicked it across the surface with a clever twist of his wrist, and the challenge began again.

It was quiet between them; a heavy silence thick with the writhing mass of warring pride and arrogance. But as the tall man lifted the gun, and slowly— agonisingly, wrapped his tongue around the barrel and dragged it into his mouth, the stranger's head lifted, and those grey eyes glinted with a cruel lust.

"You seem skilled with your tongue," the stranger's harsh voice rang out against the burgeoning hush. A new dare announced itself through those harsh grey lens, and once the tall man clicked the hammer down, he tilted his head to the side.

Both men noted the difference in sound of an occupied cylinder.

The tall man sighed and removed the revolver. Carelessly, he raised his arm and sent the single bullet thunderously into the wall below the stranger's ear.

"And are you going to say my talents are wasted?" He wiped at his mouth with his hand. His voice mocked melancholic but his amber eyes still glittered mischievously. The stranger, of course, pulled his lips into a brutal smile and leaned back with his arms crossed.

"I'm saying that you should put that tongue to better use."

The tall man's eyes drifted to his crotch, and his smirk widened. "Well," he pondered, dragging his tongue across his mouth. He sighed in dramatic artifice and ran his fingers through his bronzed hair. "I suppose I have no choice."

His amber eyes reflected the dim light like a facet of glass, or the edge of a knife. "I did lose our bet, after all."

A cold chuckle sounded past the stranger's lips, and their eyes reconnected with a renewed ferocity. Grey clashed with amber in a vicious struggle for dominance, until the stranger crashed the table between them to the ground with a hard kick and unbuttoned the front of his pants.

"Then what are you waiting for?" the stranger cocked his head, sliding further back in his chair. "Get on your knees."

Armin Arlert knelt before the altar in silence. Armin Arlert bowed his head, and like the way a couplet goes, Armin Arlert prayed for guidance.

He squeezed his clasped fingers tighter as a memory cut behind his closed eyelids— his father, his poor wasted father seizing on the floor as his mouth frothed. His mother had stood at the kitchen doorway, helpless but watching, even when her husband's spine had snapped and his eyeballs spun in their sockets like moths circling a flame. _Cinnamon cinnamon, cinnamon and carbine—_

Behind him, others did as he, while the Choir around them hummed. As the silver moon drifted across the dying light, its bright dominance washed the room with its purifying evanescence.

 _Save us, Armin._

The first-time Hunter bowed his head lower in a final prayer before straightening and turning to leave. His long cloak rustled on the floor as his made his way across the Church, hood firmly secured over his long blonde locks. Other Hunters were still bowed in reverence, most of them first-timers like him.

The annual Hunt rolled around after Harvest season, when the fields had been sowed and the barns stocked for the winter. The Monarchy opened the gates to Shiganshina for citizens to serve the Church and find redemption. These volunteer Hunters would seek the Plagued and creatures called 'blackmouths', slaying them and cleaning up the streets while the one true God watched. Meanwhile the cults would swarm in all the time, in vain hope to 'communicate' with the titanic creatures they called 'Gods'.

The Priest at the front finished his sermon, and the congregation broke. Looking around him, many Hunters bore the fresh leather and vivid clothes that marked their first Hunt. It was said that the older Hunters never attended the Church anymore. They warned that the more experienced a Hunter got, the less faith he had. And then the Plague would seep more easily into their bones, congeal their marrow, pry into their minds. Boil their blood.

But that was not his concern at the moment. With his father's pair of blunderbusses tied to his hip, and his father's blades by his side, Armin Arlert looked about the wide, decaying street nervously—

And took off at a run.

Above him, the sun drowned. And night surged forwards like a disease.

* * *

The tall man buttoned up his linen blouse with nifty fingers, swinging his cloak around his shoulders and strode forwards towards the door without looking back. Behind him, the stranger did the same. He was uncommonly short— the stranger— but his grey eyes blazed as he placed the cap atop his head.

As Jean Kirstein emerged into the quiet street, he stretched languorously and felt his muscles pop contently after a session of a good fuck.

The stranger had left two darkening marks around his throat, but Kirstein was satisfied with the bite marks he scattered across that muscled torso. His Captain had been rough this time, burrowing into him with a hostile ferocity that could have been targeted at him. Although, Kirstein mused, the man hadn't exactly had a good week.

 _Well_ , he yawned and scratched his head. No one ever had a good week around here. The street his stood on was a junction between boulevards, newly swept by two teams around last week. It was a spot often favoured by his colleagues to have a breather; propping their Set on the rooftops and have a little break, or snack, or fuck, or whatever.

The height of the buildings was so that you could easily observe what happened on the streets below you. You never had to worry about blackmouthers leaping up the buildings to eat your face. Everybody knows blackmouthers don't climb shit unless they have reason to.

Jean Kirstein released his Ranger's Set and jumped onto the rooftops.

He lit a cigarette, observing the cold, sullen street from a bird's eye view. Right below, on the face of the building he was on, he could see and faintly hear the soft squelch of the black gel-like glob oozing southwards. It was a huge globular mass of God spit and vomit perched on the brick face; inky and almost silvery. It was mildly repulsive, and he could see the deep gouges where the blackmouthers had clawed themselves out of their bizarre chrysalis.

The Gods. When they broke down the walls and swarmed into Shiganshina, the cults nationwide had nearly shat themselves, screaming salvation, and flocked towards the gates, even while the residents were clamouring to get out. Those humongous humanoids soon mowed down the city, devouring humans left and right and leaving all manner of sickness deep within the roots of the old district.

Kirstein settled his Ranger's Set on the floor and puffed his cigarette. He could barely make out the entrails burgeoning out from a human who didn't make it out whole. Those half-chewed bodies decayed in silence and cold behind translucent mirror glass.

The devil knows what happens inside a God's stomach. If a human survives the finicky insides of a God and gets spit back out, well, it seemed they took after the monsters and began eating people right off the bat. Hanji theorised that it had something to do with the silicone-like gel making up a huge percent of those puked up pellets, but Kirstein knew that whether you were puked out, bit by a blackmouther, or ate God-touched flesh; you were screwed.

A scuffling sound. Immediately, the tiny ember at the end of his stick was put out and he pushed the paper and tobacco stick further into his mouth, chewing thoughtlessly. What was that? A stray blackmouth?

They liked to come in hordes lately, wielding torches and pitchforks like a mob. Blackmouths ate human flesh, but they thought like people. And man, they hunted Rangers like Witchers hunted monsters.

In the deep dark, Kirstein squinted. He saw, and the Ranger bent down, tilting his head. Under the cold moonlight, his twin blades glinted as they were slowly pulled out with a soft _hiss_.

There— firelight thrown carelessly on the stairwell leading to the grounds below. Metal wires slicing through the air, the twin blunderbusses on adjacent sides of his hip sucked in air—

And Kirstein flew off the rooftop with a huge explosion of wind.

He narrowed his eyes and brought his blades crashing. Like dancing; _one_ , he swung his twin blades in sync, decapitating a half-rotten face. Its companions growled and screamed, tumbling over each other as they found themselves attacked on the narrow stairs. A rabid blackmouther dog lunged forwards, slimy black spittle flying from its canines as it snapped at his coat. Kirstein kicked it between its ribs where it flew and crashed into a few of its masters.

He snatched his gaze away from the dog's corpse, only to see diseased eyes glinting green before nifty hands threw forward a burning spear. It passed Kirstein's cheek by a mere millimetre.

He hissed at the heat and vertically cut in half a blackmouther that had gripped onto his arm. _Two._ It fell to the floor, plagued brain in cranium still smoking. The Ranger barely saw the wisps of steam before another one; female this time, shrieked and yowled right at his face. His brow furrowed in disgust at the sight of her black vein-addled heart pulsating visibly from a gouged chest, but he stabbed it quickly with a flick of his wrist. _Three—_

Before grabbing another flying dog by its throat and smashing its head against the wall.

 _Green eyes_ , he looked up quickly, green _fucking eyes_ , he chanted irritatedly, gaze connecting with the once green-eyed human. He held his blade aloft like a lance and—

Someone howled, and Kirstein nearly shat himself. Something huge and lumbering crashed into the remaining three blackmouths at the bottom of the stairs. It tore their heads off with a sickening crunch of its mandibles, slick black trawling down the sides of its teeth. The blackmouths screamed and one even tried to sink its half-rotted nails into the creature's skin.

Even that offending appendage however, was ripped away with a squelching snap. The black figure showed stark against the lit brackets, its snuffling now strangely silent compared to the chaotic screeching of the flesh-eaters. As it turned, very _human_ brown eyes looked into Kirstein's own.

Plagued. Once human, usually Hunters or Rangers. They were more animal than man now.

He gritted his teeth, whipping out his blunderbuss just as the Plagued lunged; and sent three scatter-shots into its chest.

The Plagued beast crumpled to the floor with the terrifying crash, vile maroon blood soaking the stone stairs. Kirstein's face twisted in a hateful scowl and spat at the figure.

He didn't know whether it was to rid himself of any vestige of pity or tension. Plagued were monsters still people. Some of the best people he knew had long turned, led out to the streets because he wasn't able to give them the mercy bullet.

The Plagued were people trapped in the body of beasts, although he knew some of their minds remained sane, caged in feral instinct. Sometimes he wondered what it would be like to be one of them. What was it like being devoured alive? Was the body already dead, but the soul chained to its mutated mortal coil? Monsters still people, went the saying.

If that was so, then all the survivors in Shiganshina must be people turned monsters, he fancied.

He lit another cigarette. Never good to think too much on things like that. If you wanted to go down that way, he reckoned you were better off writing a book about it. Might as well shoot yourself in the face too, for good measure.

Kirstein was exhausted. He thought his limbs would tear off if he dragged them further. Hell, he wouldn't mind.

But he did turn quickly at the soft gasp behind him. And he did aim his blunderbuss at the pair of similar blue eyes peeking out from a dark hood. There was a flash of long blonde hair.

And he did shoot. Three times.

* * *

 _'—_ _so what, we just sit here. We sit here like sitting ducks and we do nothing but sit and sit like fucking dog crap in the park and we sit and sit till our asses are sore and we sit and sit and sit and sit and sit till I think; well, this is it, my ass is going to fuse to this fucking floor. Fire sears the hair on my face and I can hear people fucking dying. I can feel my ass cheeks melting. I'm going to become a fucking fossil plant rooted to this fucking ground. What do you think they'll call me when they find me? Assificus Cowardnicious. Human Ass-to-ground Plant._

 _And you know what? It's fine with me. It's perfectly fine with me. Why? Why fucking why? I keep telling myself that, yeah, hey._

 _At least I'll get to fucking live, you know?'_

* * *

Armin woke up choking on frigid water that smelled suspiciously of something long rotted. He spluttered, soppy hair dripping right into his eyes. Lashing out automatically with his fist, it was caught instead by a hard hand that threatened to crack his fingers.

His breath caught, and immediately released in a defensive hiss. Water crawled down his windpipe and it took a while for him to calm down, before finally glaring up into the eyes of his captor.

They widened in fear at the sight of a dark green cloak.

"A Ranger—?" he barely lisped, before the tall man twisted his wrist sideways, eliciting a pained cry; wrenching Armin's arm backwards and against a pipe. Something silver flashed out and before Armin's own mind could process it, his left hand was cuffed to a water pipe. A surprised yell escaped his lips at that.

"What—" he protested, water still running down his face. "Hey!"

The tall man retreated, and angrily, Armin kicked out his legs to swipe them underneath the man's feet. The man dodged it, and sent his own leg fluidly through one careless arc and into Armin's own ribcage.

Pain shot up and Armin recoiled painfully, nearly biting his own tongue off from the agony. From beneath his soggy blonde hair, blue eyes blazed defiantly. He spat at the man's turned back.

"What do you want, Ranger?!" His voice was young, almost tinny, and vibrating with anxiety, but the defiance in his tone made the Ranger wheel around.

Every cell in Armin's body was tensed and ready to defend himself… if he could. The iron shackles jangled against the empty pipe hollowly but his teeth was gritted and his right arm was free. The Ranger walked slowly towards him— stalked more like, sinuous legs easing forwards like a gazelle.

As he neared, Armin could distinguish his features more easily. The man was tall, he could give him that; but he had a sharp, oval face with even sharper eyes, spangled with shades of grey that looked and _saw_. A frightening predatory grin hung from his lips and at that instant, Armin was reminded with a jolt of someone once telling him that all Rangers are mad.

He swallowed, praying to the Gods that the Ranger didn't notice. But the Ranger's grin widened only further before long fingers cruelly snatched his chin upwards.

" _Boy_ ," the Ranger emphasised. "So he can speak back huh? For one having such pretty lips." His eyes flickered downwards to Armin's mouth, and for a moment, Armin was struck with the horrible precognition that the Ranger was going to kiss him.

The Ranger's face neared, and Armin couldn't help but be struck by how unshaven his head was, a mess of a sandy crew cut. Those grey eyes were sharp with almost independent sapient grace. Oddly, it was his hair that Armin's eyes turned to.

Then Armin reared his own head forwards and slammed into him.

The Ranger recoiled, snarling. He raised a scarred hand to cover his bleeding face. For a moment, something akin to an anchor dropped into the pits of Armin's stomach. _Stupid_ , he realised. It was a stupid decision. He was so dead. Now the Ranger would definitely kill him. To his surprise however, those grey eyes glittering in moonlight merely looked at him grouchily before finally crinkling.

The Ranger laughed, and Armin blinked.

"You little fuck," he sniggered. "And here I was thinking you would be a pussy." He grabbed the boy by tufts of his yellow hair and bashed his head against the wall. Something cracked and echoed.

The boy yelped, immediately drawing into himself defensively. The Ranger dug his fingers into his hair again, lazily drew his arm back and—

 _BAM!_

 _—_ slammed the boy's skull into the brick once more.

The boy panted, his form wavering as his eyes glazed over. Good. The Ranger spat on him.

 _Hope you have a fucking concussion_.

He yanked the boy's cloak off his body, running rough fingers through the old material. They feathered over crudely stitched initials, C.A

He sighed, running a hand through his hair before slumping down against the wall next to the prone boy.

* * *

 _That bastard knocked two of my teeth out, and even with three men jumping atop him, he did nothing but howl and scream like the savage he was slowly becoming. The Plague had gone deep into his bones, and deep into his brains too. They'd found those missing Rangers staked in some personal shrine to the 'Gods'._

 _I knew one of those Rangers. Her name was Petra._

 _I couldn't help but wonder. C.A. They called him the Carbine. He had been the one who dragged me out from my own cowardice. He rallied us, and we served him. Was he not one of our bravest?_

 _I wonder. Do you define a man by what he has done, or what he has become?_

* * *

End Prologue, Part I / Part V

 **…** **this is going to be a weird story**


End file.
